But they weren't the only things driving me. It was also the feeling that, after years of doing little more than existing, unsure about what direction I was heading in, I was finally actually living again.
Although the front of Brakspear's house faced the business park (which I imagine must have pissed him off when it was built), this was partly compensated by the fact that the property also backed directly on to an open field, which bordered the lane I'd just parked in. I climbed over the fence and made my way along its outer edge until I came to the wall at the back of the house. It was lower here, just over head height, with thick, impenetrable-looking leylandii hedges looming on the other side.
I was reluctant to trespass, particularly as there was no obvious exit route, but it was also clear that I wasn't going to find out anything from where I was standing. I tried the back gate but it was locked. So, checking that my mobile was switched to silent, I took a couple of steps back and did a fairly decent impression of a running jump, hauling myself over the top of the wall and sliding down the other side, getting scratched and snagged by the foliage all the way. It wasn't the most dignified of entrances, and I had to crawl on my belly commando-style under the hedge in order to poke my head out the other side.
The garden was mainly well-kept lawn with a stone patio running along the back of the house, complete with a table and chairs and a large Australian-style gas barbecue. It wasn't as big as I imagined and only about twenty yards separated me from the patio doors. They were shut, as were all the windows, even though the day was sunny and already warm – twenty degrees at least. There was something else too. The curtains were drawn behind all but one of the windows on the ground floor, which seemed odd, especially if Brakspear was there.
I lay where I was for several minutes, watching the one window with no curtains for any sign of activity inside, but there was nothing, and I quickly found myself becoming bored. I've never been the patient type, so I crawled out from under the hedge and, staying on my belly, made my way over to a neatly trimmed waist-height privet hedge that ran along one wall towards the house. I got to my feet and, using it as cover, walked, crouching, towards a wooden gate that provided access to the front.
I paused for a moment, listening for any sound coming from the other side. I heard nothing, so I slowly opened the gate. There were two cars in the driveway. One was Brakspear's Audi A4. The other was a dark blue Mazda. I took a couple of steps forward so I could read the number plate and took a photo of it on my mobile phone.
There was a scrape on the gravel behind me.
Then, before I could turn round, a hand grabbed me tightly by the shoulder.
Twenty-one
'Who the hell are you?' demanded a well-built middle-aged man.
It had to be Roy Brakspear. He had exactly the same eyes as Jenny as well as the rounded nose. Although a big man, with a shock of curly grey hair, the aggression he was showing didn't look like it sat there naturally. He looked, it has to be said, like a nice guy, a typical middle-class dad in his fifties whose only vice was a little bit of over-indulgence where food was concerned.
'I'm a friend of Jenny's,' I said as firmly as I could, pulling away from his grip. 'I've been looking for her since Sunday night.'
His expression softened. 'Are you the lad who reported her missing?'
'Yes, I reported it,' I replied. 'And the police told me you said she went on holiday to Spain. But she was with me.'
He nodded, looking concerned. 'I thought she had, but it seems I was wrong.' He took my arm again, gently this time. 'Listen, you'd better come inside.'
Something wasn't right. I could sense it. Roy Brakspear was smiling at me but a bead of sweat was running down his forehead and he'd developed a tic in the dark patch below his left eye. He looked like he hadn't been sleeping much lately.
I had an awful feeling that if I went inside that house I might not come back out of it again. But I kept my cool. 'You need to speak to the police again, Mr Brakspear. I'll call them now.' I flicked open my mobile phone.
His smile immediately disappeared, and his grip on my arm tightened again. 'Let's do it from the house. Come on.'
Then he did a strange thing. He silently mouthed a word at me: 'Run.'
I tensed as the adrenalin pumped through me.
'You've come a long way,' he continued. 'You probably need a cup of tea or something. Then we can talk about what to do next. OK?'
Someone else was here somewhere. It was possible they were creeping up on me right now. Behind me the security gates were shut, and probably locked, and they were way too high to try to climb. That meant going back the way I'd come.
Different, conflicting emotions continued to scud across Brakspear's face like clouds. Doubt. Confusion. Sympathy. Fear.
In one sudden movement, I broke free from his grip and bolted past him, heading for the back garden. He made a surprisingly violent grab for my shirt, ripping it, but there was no way I was stopping for anyone and I kept going, stuffing the mobile in my pocket, seeing the boot sticking out behind the wall at the last possible moment.
The big shaven-headed thug – the one with the London accent from Jenny's apartment – suddenly appeared from where he'd been hiding round the corner wielding a heavy-looking ball-peen hammer. But I'd had a split second's notice of his hiding place, and that was enough. Lowering my head and fuelled by a surge of adrenalin, I charged him like a bull, hitting him hard in the stomach. I felt a stab of pain in my lower back as he caught me with the hammer, but he stumbled back and I managed to knock him out of the way, flailing my arms wildly to try to keep him off balance. I found myself pointing in the direction of the privet hedge and I charged right through it, making for the end of the garden, head down, like a sprinter.
I took a quick look round. Shaven Head was running across the lawn parallel to me, moving particularly fast for a man so big. He held the ball-peen hammer like a tomahawk, a furious expression on his face. He was trying to cut off my escape. I clenched my teeth, willing myself to go faster.
The hammer flew straight at me, spinning through the air, the aim perfect. I ducked, and it skimmed the top of my head, actually parting my hair.
Immediately, Shaven Head began fumbling in the waistband of his jeans. I didn't know what he had down there, but I could guess. Shit! Shit! Shit! Staring straight ahead, I charged into the leylandii and, finding a strength and agility I never knew I had, literally scrambled up the wall, diving headfirst down the other side and doing a painful somersault on to the path.
This time I didn't turn round. I was on my feet in a second and racing for the car, and freedom.
Twenty-two
The call from Rob Fallon came through at 10.38 according to the alarm clock by Tina's bed, and it woke her from a deep slumber – for the second time in twenty-four hours.
He started talking as soon as she picked up. 'We've got a problem. I was caught at Brakspear's place. I only just got out.'
Tina listened in silence as Fallon poured out his story. He was talking ten to the dozen and it was clear he was still full of adrenalin.
'That's all we need,' she said when he'd finished. 'What did I tell you about not getting caught?'
'I know, but I've never done this sort of thing before. I did get a photo of the other guy's car on my phone, though. With the registration number.'
'Good. Text it to me as soon as you're off the phone.' She sat up in bed and stretched. 'How about you? Are you OK?'